


Humbug

by tepidspongebath



Series: Christmas Fics [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bah Humbug, Christmas, Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, John Watson works through a Black Mood, M/M, in the sense that I didn't exactly hurt anyone so it doesn't count as hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28329708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidspongebath/pseuds/tepidspongebath
Summary: John kicked off his shoes as though they had done him a deep personal offense. “Bah!”“Humbug,” supplied Sherlock, cheerfully. “Yes, I recognize the sentiment."John Watson isn't feeling festive, but he isn't letting that get the better of him.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Christmas Fics [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/613135
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	Humbug

Christmas was just around the corner, and the season was in full festive swing. Fairy lights twinkled in every window; holly and ivy festooned every available surface; and strains of carols drifted through the crisp winter air, reminding the general populace in no uncertain terms that it was, in fact, the holiday season. It had even contrived to snow that evening, coating the city in a magical white blanket straight out of a greeting card.

Peace, joy, and goodwill to all mankind radiated relentlessly from all fronts.

John Watson was having _none_ of it.

His shoulder hurt in the cold. Fairy lights were a bitch to put up, and a bastard to put away when they inevitably had to come down. He was fairly sure that real holly was poisonous (or was that mistletoe?), and fake holly was a choking hazard. Every single damn carol was either disgustingly twee or a subtle guilt trip. He hadn’t been expecting snow, so he slipped and slid on the pavement in unsuitable shoes. And as for peace, joy and goodwill to all mankind, John was pretty sure he’d seen two women having a row over the last Baby Yoda in the shop, so that was the state of the world right there.

Christmas, he thought, could stick it right up its plum pudding arse.

His feelings must have shown plainly on his face, since the milling holiday crowds gave him a wide berth on the Tube. He could feel more than one pair of eyes slide uncomfortably sideways to avoid his expression. A mother snatched her child out of his way when he swore heartily at a patch of ice that almost made him lose his footing. The suspiciously cheery man who was about to apologize for bumping shoulders with him took one look at John’s face and fled. And he heard a distinct tremble creep into a nauseatingly sweet melody as he tramped past a gaggle of carol singers on the street corner.

John grit his teeth in a humorless grin. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he turned around to find the lot of them joining in a festive chorus about what a mean-spirited old grouch he was. It would have been satisfying, in a way. Parting the seas of humanity with a thunderhead expression had heretofore been a Sherlockian talent, and the knack must be catching.

His mood had not improved by the time he got to Baker Street, though he did try to ease his features into a less baleful arrangement when Sherlock met him at the door to the flat. He didn’t know why he bothered: Sherlock, of course, could read him at a glance, taking in John-as-he-was, from his slippery shoes to his bare head, with one quirk of an eyebrow.

“I could have told you it was going to snow,” he said, putting one long arm around John and drawing him gently into the warm room.

“More fool me for not asking.” John huffed and stamped and clung to his black mood. He’d nursed it for this long and couldn’t easily be coaxed into putting it down. “There was a mix-up at the poultry shop. They didn’t have a goose for us—”

“A shame, but Mrs. Hudson has an emergency chicken in her freezer.” Sherlock tightened his arm about John’s shoulders in a half-hug, then began to help him out of his damp jacket. “I could have told you that too.”

John kicked off his shoes as though they had done him a deep personal offense. “Bah!”

“Humbug,” supplied Sherlock, cheerfully. “Yes, I recognize the sentiment—hard to feel any other way after you do battle with the Christmas rush. Here, you need a hot drink.”

He put a steaming mug into John’s chilly hands and steered him to his chair, where an inviting nest of blankets was waiting. There was no fire in the grate, but a space heater was doing its quiet best.

John harrumphed at being manhandled into comfort, but the black mood was becoming ever so slightly less comfortable to carry. He took a sip of the tea, which was just the right temperature. Sherlock had timed the making of it perfectly.

“This is new,” he said, curling his fingers around the mug. It was an unfamiliar tea, but not unpleasant.

“A nice Assam blend. I thought you might like it. A client dropped it off while you were out—Shos-something or another.”

“Shoscombe,” murmured John, recognizing both the name and Sherlock’s disdain. “The one with the dog.”

“Oh, her. Yes. Dull.”

“As I recall, you liked the dog.”

“It wasn’t the dog’s fault.” Sherlock perched on the arm of John’s chair. “And I disagree: _Joy to the World_ is at least as odious as _Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”_

John started. The black mood, still sitting with him, reared up and bit, and it would have been so easy to snap at Sherlock, tell him to get out of his head, damn it, stop trying to be so bloody clever. And he’d apologize for it afterwards, of course he would, because he wouldn’t mean it, he never would, it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault at all that the world was wrapped around John like a heavy, prickly duvet from a seedy hotel that was barely keeping its operating license, and the very last thing he wanted was to hurt Sherlock so carelessly.

And because that was the last thing he wanted, wouldn’t it be infinitely better to avoid the need for an apology at all? It was hard, so hard, to swallow the unwarranted retort, to let go of the black mood and shut it away for another time, but Sherlock didn’t deserve such treatment, especially not when he was being so warm and open and wonderful. The thought of Sherlock’s face taking on that awful shut-off look he got when his deductions were shot down _because of him_ was simply unbearable. John concentrated on the perfectly brewed tea and let out a steadying breath.

“Maybe,” he said instead, going carefully, fingers deliberately light around the mug of tea. “But I still have a special hatred for _Wonderful Christmastime._ ”

“I don’t know that one.”

“You’re lucky.” John laid a hand—gently, gently—on Sherlock’s leg and leaned against him. “I should play it for you some time. Mind you, we’d probably have to be properly sloshed to stand it, but that’d be in keeping with the spirit of the thing.”

“Horrors.”

“Exactly.”

“Hm.” Sherlock considered this, then shifted his knees so that he could get a closer look at John. “Better now?”

“Warmer, anyway.” John gave his leg a quick, affectionate squeeze. “Thank you, love.”

“I’ll get that chicken from Mrs. Hudson.”

“It can wait, Sherlock.” John took one last drink and set the mug down on the table, trying to make his lap look empty and inviting. “Come here, will you?”

**Author's Note:**

> I think I owe Paul McCartney an apology. All the carols made me want to chuck the radio out the window, and there was no particular reason for me to single out his in particular. 
> 
> I hope all of you are having a warm and happy holiday. Stay safe, my lovelies.


End file.
